CASE 
B 


FOOTPRINTS. 


FOOTPRINTS: 


OR, 


FUGITIVE     POEMS. 


When  footprints  on  the  shore  are  seen 
We  know  some  wanderer  there  hath  been, 
Gathering  pebbles,  it  may  be, 
Or  musing  by  the  sounding  sea ; — 
Those  faint  impressions  none  may  save 
Longer  than  coming  of  the  wave. — 
If  ye  would  scan  the  footprints  here, 
Be  diligent! — a  wave  is  near! — 
Yet,  though  all  trace  will  soon  be  past, 
They  may  give  pleasure  while  they  last. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

JOHN    PENINGTON. 

1843. 


C.  Sherman,  Printer, 

19  St.  James  Street,  Philadelphia. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

A 

THE  verses  contained  in  this  little  volume  having  been 
received  with  a  very  unexpected  degree  of  favour,  as 
they  appeared  severally  in  the  "  Banner  of  the  Cross" 
and  elsewhere,  they  are  now  placed  in  a  more  accessible 
form,  in  order  to  meet  the  wishes  of  some  valued  friends 
who  have  expressed  a  desire  to  possess  them.  Without 
any  extravagant  hopes  for  the  success  of  this  publica 
tion,  the  writer  will  be  abundantly  satisfied  should  his 
"  weaved-up  follies"  be  treated  with  the  indulgence  so 
liberally  extended  towards  many  individual  pieces  of 

this  collection. 

J.  C.  P. 

August  24th,  1843. 


M 


CONTENTS. 

THE  VISION  OF  A  DREAM    -  -          9 

THOUGHTS  ABOUT  WORDSWORTH  12 

THE  STARS  -       14 

MOONLIGHT       -  16 

THE  GREEN  GATE  OF  PARADISE  -                                               18 

THE  CROSS  IN  THE  SKY                   -  20 

THE  MINISTRY  OF  ANGELS  -                                              23 

TO  THE  MISSISSIPPI      -  25 

MERCY'S  DREAM    -  -     27 

OXFORD  29 

SYMBOLS  -       30 

BRIDAL  THOUGHTS          -  32 

FAREWELL  -       35 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  COLERIDGE  37 

MEDITATIONS,  ON  VISITING  AN  OLD  JEWS'  BURYING- 

GROUND            -                   -  -                   -                   -       39 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

THE  ARMY  OF  THE  DEAD               -  41 

I  LOVE  THE  SPRING  -                   -       43 

CONESTOGA       -                                   •   •     '  45 

SHE  COULD  NOT  LIVE  ALWAY  '-                   -       48 

THE  INAUGURATION      -  50 

TO  A  SWORD              -  -52 

THE  DREAM  OF  COLUMBUS  54 

MOUNT  VERNON     -                   -  -                   -       56 

NIOBE  CHANGED  INTO  STONE     -  58 

WILD  FLOWERS       -  -       61 

ADIEU  TO  WYOMING  63 

THE  MAD  POET        -  -       66 

THE  CLOCK  OF  THE  BURNING  TOWER      -  69 

ABBOTSFORD              -                   »  -       72 

THE  HOUSE  OF  PRAYER  -                75 

POCAHONTAS             -                                      -  -       78 

RAINY  WEATHER                                -  80 

AN  OLD  MAN'S  MUSINGS      .«- :               -  -       82 

THE  FATE  OF  THE  HUMMING  BIRD  85 

FOOTSTEPS  OF  AUTUMN         -  -       88 

BOSTON  NOTIONS               ....  90 


FOOTPRINTS. 


THE    VISION   OF   A   DUEAM. 


IN  silent  watches  of  the  night, 
When  sleep  had  lulled  my  weary  frame, 
I  dreamed  a  dream,  so  beautiful, 
Methought  from  Heaven  it  came  ! 

Before  my  eyes,  uprose  a  church, 
Of  weather-stained  and  mossy  stone ; 
And  sweet-toned  bells  chimed  from  its  tower, 
So  old  and  ivy-grown. 

Its  oaken  doors  were  never  closed, 
From  balmy  morn  till  dewy  eve ; 
And  rustic  folk  went  out  and  in, 
Nor  ever  asked  for  leave. 
2 


10  THE    VISION    OF    A    DREAM. 

A  white-robed  priest,  in  meet  array, 
Within  the  hallowed  chancel  stood ; 
And  there  he  spake  the  word  of  life, 
And  dealt  out  angels'  food. 

And  one  I  saw — a  lady  fair — 
Of  sober  mien,  and  nameless  grace, 
And  like  a  heavenly  bride  she  seemed, 
'.!    **',   Of  more  than  royal  race. 

With  pensive  voice,  and  winning  smile, 
"  She  freely  beckoned  all,  to  come  : — 
Yet,  though  her  blessing  was  for  all, 
It  seemed  in  vain  for  some. 

Behold  ! — an  infant,  child  of  sin, 
To  yon  pure  font  she  gently  leads, 
While,  from  a  radiant  Golden  Book, 
A  prayer  the  pastor  reads. 

Again,  as  there  a  youthful  group 

Around  the  sacred  chancel  bend, 

A  bishop,  from  the  Golden  Book, 

Prays  strength  unto  the  end. 

From  out  that  Book,  the  word  of  hope 
To  wedded  hearts  is  freely  given  ; — 
There,  too,  are  found  those  sweet  old  prayers, 
That  waft  the  soul  to  heaven. 


THE    VISION    OF    A    DREAM.  11 

An  ardent  wish  then  o'er  me  stole, 
That  such  a  precious  book  were  mine, 
To  guide  my  pilgrim  footsteps  up 
Where  endless  day-beams  shine. 

With  sudden  start,  my  sleep  was  gone ; — 
No  time-stained  church — no  bride  was  there, 
But,  clasped  in  fondness  to  my  heart, 
I  held— the  Book  of  Prayer ! 


THOUGHTS  ABOUT  WORDSWORTH. 

POET  !  whose  study  is  the  leafy  wood, 

Or  the  green  margin  of  some  quiet  lake 

Hard  by  thy  cottage-home : — It  were  a  rare 

And  precious  privilege,  to  talk  with  thee 

Of  those  high  themes  which  thou  hast  builded  up 

In  verse,  whose  solid  fabric  shall  endure 

With  the  strong  language  of  thy  native  land  ! 

Age  hath  crept  o'er  thee : — but  the  hand  of  Time 
Rests  on  thy  head  in  blessing ! — He  hath  left 
No  withering  traces  on  that  placid  brow, 
Nor  in  the  wrinkled  furrows  of  thy  cheek  ! 
Sun  of  our  darkened  age ! — we  scarce  have  known 
The  greatness  of  thy  all-embracing  disk, 
Till  it  hath  reached  its  setting.     Now  we  gaze 
With  quiet  reverence  on  thy  sinking  orb. 

When  thou  must  pass  down  to  thy  dreamless  sleep 
'Twill  seem  as  evening  to  the  little  flower 
That  folds  its  petals  at  the  shut  of  day  ; 


THOUGHTS  ABOUT  WORDSWORTH.      13 

For  thou  hast  been  of  humblest  things  the  friend, 
Hast  found  companionship  in  withered  leaves, 
And  deep  religion  in  the  lowliest  clod  ! 

When  thou  must  die,  shall  thy  pale  form  be  laid, 
Amid  the  bones  of  poets  and  of  kings, 
In  the  Great  Abbey,  symbol  of  the  Faith 
Which  claims  the  noblest  offspring  of  thy  lyre  ? 
Ah,  no ! — 't  were  fit,  thy  place  of  rest  should  be 
Calm  as  thy  living  life — far  from  the  din 
Of  busy  traffic,  and  the  hum  of  men, — 
In  some  lone  spot  where  violets  may  bloom, 
And  birds  may  warble  round  thy  grassy  grave. 

But,  we  do  hope,  that  thou  hast  yet  long  years 
To  linger  with  the  living — to  breathe  out 
Thy  philosophic  numbers — and  to  show 
How  Genius  brightens  at  the  touch  of  Faith ! 


THE    STARS. 

Canst  thou  bind  the  sweet  influences  of  Pleiades,  or  loose  the  bands  of 
Orion? — JOB  xxxviii.  31. 

CELESTIAL  spirits  !  coyly  peeping 
Through  the  curtains  of  the  sky  : — 

Holding  ward  o'er  mortals  sleeping, 
With  a  soft,  benignant  eye  ! 

Can  we  wonder,  ancient  sages 
Questioned  ye  for  mystic  lore  ? — 

Seeking,  in  yon  brilliant  pages, 
Fate's  dark  secrets  to  explore. 

Not  in  vain,  we  pause  and  linger 

Over  aught  in  Nature's  book  : 
For,  with  steady,  silent  finger, 

Truth  will  guide  us,  if  we  look. 

How  stately  moves  Orion  yonder ! — 
The  Pleiades  sweet  influence  shed, — 

And,  white  o'er  Pleiad  lost  we  ponder, 
Fond  Memory  counts  her  missing  dead  ! 


THE    STARS. 

O,  night ! — thou  art  the  blessed  season 
Of  each  high  and  holy  thought  :— 

Far  better  truth  than  comes  of  reason, 
By  the  solemn  stars  is  taught. 

Yon  host  of  worlds  had  faded — vanished- 
In  the  dazzling  glare  of  day, 

But,  soon  as  earthly  light  was  banished, 
Clear  outshone  each  heavenly  ray  ! 

Thus  the  spirit-land  is  near  us, — 
Shrouded  thinly  from  our  sight, — 

Yet  glimpses  oft  will  steal  before  us, 
In  the  lonely  hours  of  night ! 


15 


MOONLIGHT. 

WHEN  the  sky  is  clear,  and  the  moon  shines  bright, 

Touching  forest  and  field  with  a  silvery  light : — 

Half-revealing  the  scenes,  by  her  mellow  ray, 

That  late  were  basking  in  the  glare  of  day, — 

I  love  to  wander,  and  muse  alone 

On  bright  hopes  and  pleasures  for  ever  flown ; — 

To  think  of  the  absent,  whose  smile  I  love, 

Or  the  faithful  departed  in  realms  above ; — 

And  I  wonder  if  yet  they  enjoy  the  boon, 

To  be  gazing  with  me  on  that  silent  moon ! 

How  still  is  the  night ! — not  the  faintest  sound 

From  the  quiet  homes  that  are  sleeping  around ! — 

Save  the  far-off  bark  of  a  farmer's  dog, 

Or  the  tuneless  croak  of  a  restless  frog, 

Or  the  rippling  music  of  yonder  stream, 

That  twinkles  and  laughs  in  the  cold  moon's  beam. 

Beautiful  planet ! — I  love  to  trace 

Every  change  that  comes  o'er  thy  radiant  face, 


MOONLIGHT. 

From  thy  new-wrought  bow,  with  its  slender  arch, 
To  the  full  moon,  sweeping  in  stately  march, 
Like  a  victor  queen,  of  her  army  proud, 
Leading  troops  of  stars  o'er  an  Alpine  cloud. 

They  say,  bright  moon  !  when  thou  look'st  on  the  sea, 

Old  Ocean  leaps  up  to  welcome  thee, 

And  the  mighty  tides,  that  o'erswell  the  land, 

Are  obedient  vassals  at  thy  command  ! 

It  may  be  so  : — but  I  only  know 

How  the  tides  of  feeling,  that  come  and  go 

In  the  restless  depths  of  a  human  soul, 

Own  the  mystic  chain  of  thy  mild  control ! 

As  the  tender  glance  of  a  mother's  face, 

Bending  o'er  her  child  with  a  nameless  grace, 

Makes  the  baby  to  laugh,  with  a  happy  glee, 

Till  he  drops  asleep  on  his  parent's  knee — 

So,  that  gentle  moon,  ere  one's  half  aware, 

Will  efface  each  wrinkle  from  the  brow  of  care, 

And  the  soul,  pressed  down  with  the  weight  of  ill, 

Wears  a  robe  of  gladness  against  its  will. 

WThen  my  ramble  is  o'er,  then  I  lay  my  head 
On  the  soft,  cool  pillow  of  my  lonely  bed  ; — 
On  my  closing  eye  streams  the  moon's  pale  ray, 
Till  it  fades  in  the  glory  of  new-born  day. — 
When  my  moonlight  career  upon  earth  is  done, 
May  the  morning  break  with  a  cloudless  sun ! 


THE  GREEN  G-ATE  OF  PARADISE. 
(Scene :  In  a  Moravian  Burying-Ground.) 

THE  setting  sun  shines  with  his  parting  ray 
On  the  low  mansions  of  the  humble  dead ; 

And  clustering  flowers  above  them,  seem  to  say, 
Each  lies  contented  in  his  lowly  bed. 

No  lordly  sepulchre,  with  chilling  frown, 
Bears  pompous  epitaph  with  lying  breath, 

Nor  on  poor  neighbours  scornfully  looks  down, — 
Clinging  to  aristocracy  in  death. 

The  grassy  turf,  is  covering  for  all : — 

One  narrow  stone  lies  shield-like  o'er  each  breast, — 
As  old  Crusaders,  in  some  Gothic  hall, 

In  armed  effigy  are  seen  to  rest. 

Each  varying  grade  of  life  is  ranged  apart, 
The  only  rank,  is  womanhood,  or  age, — 

Save  where  some  sweeter  flower  proclaims  a  heart 
That  graved  its  name  more  deep  on  Memory's  page. 


THE  GREEN  GATE  OF  PARADISE. 

Here,  lie  the  veterans,  in  stern  repose, — 

Their  struggles  over,  and  life's  labours  done ; — 

There,  little,  span-long  hillocks,  are  for  those 
Whose  leaf  was  withered  in  the  morning  sun. 

The  graves  of  children ! — beautiful,  to  me, 
These  earthen  cradles  of  the  infant  dead ! 

A  more  than  mother's  eye,  methinks,  I  see, 
Watching  above  each  little  dreamer's  head. 

Why  should  sad  sights  be  clustered  round  the  grave, 
That  friends  must  pass  it  with  averted  eyes  ? — 

Roses  should  bloom,  and  flowering  trees  should  wave 
Around  the  tomb— The  Green  Gate  of  the  Skies! 


19 


THE  CROSS  IN  THE  SKY. 

As  Constantine  the  Great 

His  valiant  legions  led, 
With  fell  design,  each  foeman  bold 

To  number  with  the  dead ; 
The  shades  of  night  came  stealing  on, 

And  many  a  twinkling  star 
Was  seen  above,  in  heaven's  high  arch, 

Upon  the  eve  of  war. 

But,  as  they  view  those  radiant  gems 

Around  the  brow  of  night, 
Behold  !  the  wonder  that  appears 

To  chain  their  ravished  sight ! 
See !  pictured  on  the  darkening  sky 

Those  ever-varying  beams, 
Like  blush  of  rosy-coloured  light 

That  from  Aurora  streams. 

The  chargers  snort  with  panic  dread, 
And  high  their  proud  necks  toss, 


THE    CROSS    IN    THE    SKY.  21 

As,  gleaming  from  the  evening  sky, 

Outshines  a  blood-red  Cross  ! 
Each  moment,  with  intenser  blaze, 

The  glimmering  flashes  shine  ; 
And,  see !  above  yon  emblem  stands 

A  soul-inspiring  line ! 

"  Conquer  by  this  !" — in  words  of  fire, 

The  awe-struck  army  reads, 
As,  onward,  with  high-mounting  hopes 

They  urge  their  prancing  steeds  : 
Anon,  they  reach  the  haughty  foe — 

They  join  in  headlong  fight : — 
But,  woe  to  foe  of  Constantine, 

From  that  well-noted  night. 

And,  ever  after,  as  they  say, 

The  cross  was  reared  on  high ; — 
Embroidered  on  each  standard-fold — 

Sure  pledge  of  victory. 
Like  some  enchanted  banner  old, 

That  heaven-sent  Cross  appeared  ; 
For,  was  he  not  invincible 

Who  that  high  signal  reared  ? 

And,  is  that  sign  less  potent  now, 

To  bless  some  conquering  line, 
Than  when  it  floated  proudly  o'er 

The  band  of  Constantine  ? — 
3 


THE    CROSS    IN    THE    SKY. 

"  Conquer  by  this  !" — the  war-cry  still 
Of  Christian  hearts  should  be  ; 

And,  evermore,  that  heaven-sent  Cross 
The  pledge  of  victory  ! 


THE  MINISTRY  OF  ANG-ELS. 

How,  precious,  when  earth  looks  deserted  and  dreary, 

And  for  comfort  in  vain  through  life's  follies  we  roam, 
Is  the  faith,  that  in  Heaven  there's  rest  for  the  weary, 

And  angels  around  us  that  point  to  our  home ! 
For,  I  fain  would  believe,  that,  or  waking,  or  sleeping, 

Still  hovering  near,  round  my  path  and  my  bed, 
One  bright,  special  guardian  lone  vigil  is  keeping, 

To  ward  off  each  danger  that  threatens  my  head. 

And,  methinks,   from  each   clod-,  and  each  leaf  that's 
around  us, 

Angel -voices  have  tones  for  the  listening  ear ; 
And  if  once  we  might  break  from  earth's  chain  that  has 
bound  us, 

Bright  legions  of  angels  would  welcome  us  here. 
Hast  thou  wandered  alone  in  the  calm,  silent  night, 

When  the  stars  gaze  so  thoughtfully  down, 
And  ne'er  fancied  them  angel-eyes  gifted  with  sight, 

That  could  meet  thee  with  smile  or  with  frown  ? 


24  THE    MINISTRY    OP    ANGELS. 

And,  hast  thou  not  felt,  when  the  storm  hath  been  raging, 

And  the  whirlwind  uprooted  tall  trees  in  his  path, 
As  if  angels  embattled,  fierce  warfare  were  waging, 

And  outpouring  on  earth  their  dread  vials  of  wrath? 
Or,  the  soft  breath  that  comes  from  the  sunny  southwest 

Having  kissed  every  flower  it  met  on  its  way, 
Seems  it  not  like  a  voice  from  the  Land  of  the  Blest, 

To  allure  thee  from  sin  and  from  sorrow  away? 

Yes ! — even   those   loved    ones,   whom   death   snatches 

from  us, 

Away  from  life's  pleasures,  to  mansions  above, 
Are  transformed  into  angels,  whose  care  will  be  o'er  us, 
Till  we,  too,  shall  meet  them,  where  all  will  be  love. — 
Then,   whene'er   this   cold   world   looks   deserted    and 

dreary, 
And,  for  comfort,  in  vain   through   life's  follies  we 

roam, 

Be  assured,  that  in  heaven,  there's  rest  for  the  weary, 
And  angels  around  us,  that  point  to  our  home ! 


TO  THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

MAJESTIC  river  ! — slowly  faring 

To  the  vast  and  solemn  sea  : — 
Onward  still  my  thoughts  are  bearing, 

While  my  vision  rests  on  thee ! 

Here,  many  a  plant  in  beauty  twining, 

A  chaplet  for  the  forest  weaves, 
And  many  a  proud  magnolia's  shining 

In  fadeless  coronal  of  leaves. 

And,  from  the  trees,  all  gray  and  hoary, 
Long-bearded  mosses  slowly  wave ; 

Each,  like  Old  Lear,  renowned  in  story, 

When  doomed  the  unpitying  storm  to  brave. 

And  yonder,  lo  ! — in  beauty  winding, 
The  King  of  Waters  proudly  glides  ; — 

In  Ocean's  ample  bosom  finding 
A  refuge  for  his  mingled  tides. 
3* 


26  TO    THE    MISSISSIPPI. 

Far,  far  from  thee,  thou  royal  river ! 

My  wayward  fancy  loves  to  roam  ; 
For,  though  thou  hast  high  thoughts  to  give  her, 

An  angel  haunts  the  pool  of  home. 

And,  when  such  cares  as  make  us  weary 
Come  thick  upon  the  fainting  soul : — 

And  all  around  looks  sad  and  dreary — 
But  one  Bethesda  makes  us  whole. 

Then,  what  though  southern  gales  are  breathing, 
And  gently  comes  each  winter's  day, 

To  him,  whose  silent  thoughts  are  stealing 
Toward  friends,  by  rivers  far  away ! 


MERCY'S  DREAM. 
(A  picture  by  Huntington,  from  the  Pilgrim's  Progress.) 

DELIGHTFUL  picture ! — when  I  gaze  on  thee, 
A  glimpse  of  other  worlds,  methinks,  I  see ; 
Thou  art  e'en  lovelier  than  the  vision  came 
To  Bunyan, — dreamer  of  immortal  fame — 
When,  rapt  in  sacred  contemplation  high, 
He  led  his  pilgrim  to  the  upper  sky. 

See  ! — Mercy  is  asleep — in  holy  rest — 
Her  pious  hands  cross-folded  on  her  breast, 
While,  just  come  down,  all-radiant  from  on  high, 
A  bright-winged  seraph  lightly  hovers  nigh, 
And  a  pure  halo,  from  an  airy  crown, 
On  Mercy's  face  streams  luminously  down  ; — 
Round  a  small  cross,  the  glory  seems  to  linger ; — 
While,  pointing  upward,  with  inspired  ringer, 
The  angel's  teachings,  to  our  fancy,  seem 
Pure  as  the  vision  of  sweet  Mercy's  dream  ! 


28  MERCY'S  DREAM. 

Blest  be  the  painter,  who  can  make  us  see 
The  airy  shapes  of  heaven-born  Poesy — 
Such  as  they  gleam  upon  the  favoured  sight 
Of  bards  illumined  with  celestial  light ! 
Deem  not  these  phantom-shapes,  the  useless  toil 
Of  men,  who  live  but  cumberers  of  the  soil. — 
No  ! — these  are  flashes  of  a  purer  light, 
Sent  to  illume  the  darkness  of  our  night : — 
A  taper-ray,  for  wandering  spirits  given, 
To  lure  us  upward  to  our  native  heaven ! 


OXFORD. 
(A  Sonnet  for  the  Intolerant) 

YE  antique  towers,  of  another  age ! — 

Where  giant  minds,  the  teacher  and  the  taught, 

Have  fed,  unceasingly,  the  lamp  of  thought, 

And  heaped  with  wisdom  many  a  studious  page, 

Dear  to  the  classic  and  the  Christian  sage  ! — 

Within  your  walls,  there  gleameth  now  a  light, 

Dawning  upon  the  church's  star-lit  night. — 

Yet,  some  are  found,  a  bitter  war  to  wage, 

On  the  revivers  of  the  ancient  creed  :— 

Shunning  all  knowledge,  with  closed  eyes  they  grope, 

Lest  they  become  the  victims  of  the  Pope  ! 

They  fly  the  monster  valiantly,  indeed  ; — 

For,  while  they  hurl  back  thunders,  each  meek  man 

Claims  right  to  own  a  private  Vatican  ! 


SYMBOLS. 

WHEN  the  mother's  voice,  at  ever., 

Guides  her  little  one  in  prayer, 
She  lifts  her  soft  blue  eye  to  heaven, 

One  day,  hoping  to  be  there. 
Then,  the  boy  beside  her  kneeling, 

Gazes  fondly  in  her  eye, 
To  his  artless  fancy,  seeming 

Like  the  blue  vault  of  the  sky  ! 

So,  the  Church,  the  blessed  mother, 
Of  a  new  and  heavenly  birth, 

To  our  spirit,  seems  none  other 
Than  God's  messenger  on  earth. — 

Her  voice,  it  tells  of  endless  glory 
In  a  better  world  above  : — 

Her  kindling  eye,  beams  with  the  story 
Of  a  Saviour's  dying  love ! 

Guarding  all,  the  high  and  lowly, 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 


SYMBOLS.  31 


She  whispereth  her  lessons  holy 
Upon  land  and  o'er  the  wave. — 

She  doth  smile  upon  our  gladness, — 
Hath  a  tear  for  every  woe — 

And,  alike  in  joy  or  sadness-, 
Followeth,  where'er  we  go. 

At  her  feet,  like  children,  kneeling, 

May  we  seek  her  prayers  to  learn, 
Till,  with  high  and  holy  feeling, 

Each  dull  soul  begins  to  burn. 
Then,  while  guiding  to  the  portals 

Of  a  better  world  above, 
May  her  eye,  to  lisping  mortals, 

Be  the  symbol  of  God's  love ! 


BUIDAL   THOUG-HT3. 


TO  G.  W.  H. 


FRIEND  of  my  youth  ! — Hope's  anxious  day  is  o'er, 
And  the  young  maiden  who  hath  offered  up 
Her  heart  into  thy  keeping,  vvaiteth  now 
To  seal  the  life-long  covenant  of  love ! 

Yours,  is  no  sudden  fever  of  the  brain, 
Which  dreams  of  happiness  too  vast  for  earth, 
In  this  auspicious  union ! — Ye  have  felt 
How  frail  is  every  thing  in  this  poor  world 
That  is  not  based  on  heaven. — Ye  have  heard 
The  blessed  teachings  of  our  mother  church, 
Who,  with  a  matron  dignity,  preserves 
Her  hallowed  symbol  of  the  wedding-ring, 
And  hath  a  rose-bud  of  celestial  hue 
For  the  pale  forehead  of  the  virgin  bride. 

The  world  is  often  cheerless ;— friends  prove  false, 


BRIDAL    THOUGHTS.  33 

And  cherished  hopes,  but  castles  in  the  air, 
Which  a  rude  breath  will  instantly  dissolve. — 
'Tis  well  that  we  should  journey,  two  and  two, 
O'er  the  rough  pathway  of  our  pilgrimage  ; — 
Each  mind  a  worthy  lodging-place  to  hold 
The  best  thoughts  of  the  other,  and  each  heart 
The  sacred  store-house  of  our  mutual  cares. 
Two  kindred  souls,  thus  closely  intermingled, 
Will  gain  a  new  perfection,  and  the  faults 
Clinging  to  either,  will  be  cured  in  both. 

Now,  young  and  old  are  gathered  ! — with  a  slow 
And  solemn  utterance,  the  man  of  God 
Speaks  out  a  thrilling  question — which  receives 
An  audible  and  resolute  reply. — 
Again,  it  is  repeated  : — "  Wilt  thou  have 
This  man  to  be  thy  husband?" — A  mute  nod 
Is  eloquent  of  truth,  deeper  than  words  ! 

The  vow  is  past,  and  ye  are  knit  together 
Until  death  part  ye  : — "  Death  !" — a  solemn  word, 
Methinks,  ye  tell  me,  for  a  merry  meeting  ; — 
Causing  a  shudder,  like  the  bony  thing 
Grinning  at  Egypt's  banquets. — But,  'tis  well 
To  be  reminded  of  mortality, — to  feel 
That  here  is  not  your  rest, — that  one  must  pass 
From  hence,  before  the  other  ; — one  must  feel 
The  desolation  of  a  riven  heart ! 
4 


34  BRIDAL    THOUGHTS. 

Enough  of  gloom  ! — Such  are  the  common  woes 

Of  poor  humanity. — Your  star  is  bright 

And  hath  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye, 

Giving  sure  promise  of  the  joys  of  earth, 

And  blissful  entrance,  through  them,  into  heaven  ! 


FAREWELL. 

THE  summer  birds,  on  restless  wing, 

Are  gone  from  flower  and  tree ; 
And  Autumn,  with  her  pensive  smile, 

Looks  soberly  on  me  ; 
For,  though  I  join  the  bright-winged  birds 

Who  seek  a  sunnier  shore — 
The  wintry  forests  of  my  youth — 

Ah,  yes  ! — I  love  them  more. 

And  now,  adieu  ! — my  quiet  home, 

With  many  a  valued  friend  ; — 
Howe'er  I  roam  in  other  lands, 

I'll  love  you  to  the  end  ; 
And  if,  perchance,  some  kindly  word 

By  stranger  lips  be  spoken — 
'Twill  but  recall  those  silken  ties, 

By  absence,  rudely  broken. 

And  if,  to  cheer  my  drooping  heart, 
Or  speed  the  toilsome  hours, 


FAREWELL. 

I  sound  again  my  feeble  lute 

By  Mississippi's  flowers, — 
May  partial  friends,  whose  cheering  words 

Have  been  so  freely  given, 
For  strength  to  bless  the  humble  bard, 

Breathe,  sometimes,  prayers  to  heaven ! 


TO  THE   MEMORY  OF  COLERIDGE. 

The  rapt  one  of  the  godlike  forehead, 
The  heaven-eyed  creature  sleeps  in  earth. 

WORDSWORTH. 

WILD,  wayward  Coleridge  ! — unto  thee  belong 
The  highest  dignities  that  earth  can  give  ; — 
Christian,  philosopher,  and  sweet-voiced  bard ! 
What,  though  no  sounding  title  ever  fell 
By  royal  gift,  upon  thee  ? — thou  hast  gained 
Far  better  tribute  from  a  thoughtful  few  ! 

Who,  that  has  lingered  o'er  sweet  Christabel, 
Or  thy  quaint,  mystic  story  of  the  sea, 
But  oft,  unconscious  to  himself,  will  murmur 
Some  fragments  of  the  song  ? — Those  airy  notes 
Do  cling  about  the  memory,  like  holy  hymn, 
Chanted  in  old  cathedral — where  the  sound 
Of  harmony  floats  round  the  pointed  arches, 
Though  the  loud  organ  may  have  ceased  to  sound. 

Thy  godlike  forehead  was  all  written  over 

With  traces  of  high  thought : — those  now  pale  lips 


TO    THE    MEMORY    OF    COLERIDGE. 

Were  eloquent  with  wisdom,  and  the  eye 
Kindled  with  inspiration,  as  thy  voice 
Poured,  in  full  torrent,  upon  listening  ears : — 
It  seemed  as  if  old  Plato  had  come  back 
With  his  divine  philosophy,  which  thou  didst  love  ! 
Thine  was  no  common  mission ! — thou  didst  teach 
The  laws  of  spirit  to  a  sensual  age  ! — 
What,  if  the  simple  mocked  thee,  and  applied 
To  those  high  doctrines  every  term  of  scorn  ? — 
Calling  thee  but  a  dreamer  and  a  fool ! — 
Such  is  the  fate  of  genius,  which  presumes 
To  step  one  inch  beyond  the  common  herd. — 
Meantime,  the  seed  was  falling  on  good  ground, 
And  now,  is  ripening  to  a  golden  harvest : — 
Truth  and  religion  own  thee  for  a  champion, 
And  grateful  thousands  love  thy  sainted  name.! 

A  dreary  spot  were  earth,  did  not  Heaven  send  us 
Sometimes,  a  great,  good  man — with  life  devoted 
To  high  and  noble  ends — not  all-engrossed 
In  getting  means  to  live  :  but,  whose  large  soul, 
Spurning  the  petty  tricks  of  low-born  prudence, 
Woos  high  philosophy,  and  sacred  song ! 


MEDITATIONS, 
On  visiting  an  old  Jews'  burying-ground,  now  deserted. 

THE  sun  is  gone  from  heaven,  and  clouds  are  glowing 

In  warmest  colours  of  the  radiant  west, 
As  if  a  sea  of  liquid  gold  were  flowing 

Around  the  purple  islands  of  the  blest ! 
At  each  slow  step,  day's  parting  blush  grows  dimmer, 

One  lonely  star  comes  forth  upon  the  sight : — 
And  now,  the  moon's  pale  ray  begins  to  glimmer 

With  a  sweet  smile,  at  coming  on  of  night. 

Around  my  path,  tall  grass  and  weeds  are  springing, 

Not  oft  molested  by  a  rover's  tread ; 
And  moss-grown  slabs  beneath  my  feet  are  ringing, 

That  tell  the  virtues  of  the  Jewish  dead. 
Here,  Israel's  children  now  lie  all  forgotten, 

And,  e'en  in  death,  seem  strangers  in  the  land, 
Nor  son,  nor  sire,  of  Hebrew  race  begotten, 

Renews  those  epitaphs,  with  friendly  hand. 


40  MEDITATIONS. 

Of  old,  their  sweet  harps  hanged  upon  the  willows, 

Because  the  exiles  mourned  their  distant  home, 
Nor  yet  may  Zion's  hymns  soothe  dying  pillows, 

For  the  poor  Hebrew,  still,  is  doomed  to  roam. — 
Like  a  frail  weed,  dashed  by  the  boiling  ocean, 

To  rot  and  wither  on  a  lonely  shore, 
The  outcast  Jew  still  pays  his  sad  devotion 

To  Israel's  God — a  friendly  God  no  more. 

The  sires  of  those  who  here  in  dust  are  lying, 

Were  once  the  favoured  children  of  the  Lord  ; — 
Until,  too  proudly  on  their  strength  relying, 

They  slew  the  Saviour,  promised  in  his  word. 
Then,  their  great  temple  to  the  earth  was  riven, 

By  hostile  legions,  young  and  old  were  slain ; 
And,  from  the  promised  land,  in  anger  driven, 

They  ne'er  may  view  its  olive-groves  again. 

Long  hath  the  Jew,  an  exile  and  a  stranger, 

In  every  country  now  been  forced  to  rove, 
Yet,  the  Despised  One,  of  the  lowly  manger, 

Invites  him  home,  with  promises  of  love; — 
Soon  may  the  veil,  their  weeping  eyes  now  blinding, 

Be  torn,  for  ever,  from  the  Hebrews'  sight ! — 
And,  in  the  Son,  the  God  of  Abraham,  finding, 

May  Jew  and  Christian,  in  one  fold  unite ! 


THE   ARMY   OF  THE  DEAD. 

ON — on — on — 

And  yet  onward  they  come, 
To  the  slow  and  solemn  music 

Of  the  deep-muffled  drum  ! 
Behold  ! — how  they  march, 

Moving  on  through  the  valley, 
Toward  the  field  of  the  dead, 

Where  the  skeletons  rally, 
Even  midnight  grows  blacker, 

As  onward  they  come, 
To  the  slow  and  solemn  music 

Of  the  deep-muffled  drum  ! 

Hark !— how  they  rattle  ! — 
Those  damp,  musty  bones — 

As,  with  firm  tread  and  solemn, 
They  march  o'er  the  stones  ! — 

And,  yon  grim-visaged  king, 
On  his  fleet,  bony  charger, 


42  THE    ARMY    OF    THE    DEAD. 

While  his  stern  orders  ring, 
Every  moment,  looms  larger. 

"  On  !— vassals  !— on  !"— 
Even  nature  is  dumb, 

As,  with  firm  tread  and  solemn, 
Yon  skeletons  come  ! 

But,  the  red  lightning  gleams  : — 

What  a  horrible  sight ! — 
Each  cold,  skinny  hand, 

A  new  corpse  grapples  tight ! — 
Ah ! — the  babes,  and  the  maidens, 

And  strong-bodied  men, 
Who  are  clutched  by  these  marchers, 

Return  not  again  : — 
But,  still  onward  they  move, 

Ever  silent  and  dumb, 
To  the  slow  and  solemn  music 

Of  the  deep-muffled  drum  ! 


I  LOVE   THE   SPUING-. 

I  LOVE  the  spring — her  bursting  buds  and  flowers, 
The  blue-bird  whistling  in  her  leafy  bowers  ; 
The  waters,  laughing  with  a  merry  sound, 
That  late  were  mute,  in  icy  fetters  bound. 

I  love  the  spring — when  snow-drops  slily  peep 
From  the  warm  curtain  of  their  wintry  sleep, 
When  purple  violets  to  earth  are  given, 
And  blue-bells  whisper  hope,  in  hues  of  heaven. 

I  love  the  spring — for  then  the  bright-plumed  birds 
Pour  richer  melodies  than  human  words ; 
And  each  frail  straw,  borne  to  the  cherished  nest, 
Teaches  a  lesson  of  domestic  rest. 

I  love  the  spring — e'en  when  the  lightnings  flash, 
And  deep-toned  thunders  startle  by  their  crash  ; 
Or  April  rains  dispel  our  rising  fears, 
Like  some  pale  beauty,  smiling  through  her  tears. 


44  I    LOVE    THE    SPRING. 

I  love  the  spring — it  is  the  time  to  roam 
In  those  still  haunts  where  Nature  makes  her  home  ; 
Where  frowning  rocks  look  down  on  silent  streams, 
As  on  a  mirror  giving  back  their  beams. 

I  love  the  spring — no  more  homeless  child 
Shall  coldly  shiver  in  the  tempest  wild : — 
Benignant  spring  ! — thou  art  the  poor  man's  friend, 
And  I  will  love  thee  till  my  life  shall  end  ! 


CONESTOG-A. 

IT  is  a  wild  and  lovely  stream, 

As  ever  sported  in  the  gleam 

Of  yon  bright  sun,  whose  merry  beam 

Plays  on  the  water, — 
Once  the  smooth  mirror,  we  may  deem, 

Of  chieftain's  daughter. 

For,  this  tall  crag  whereon  I  stand, 

Was  loved  by  that  ill-fated  band 

Who  once  roamed  through  our  pleasant  land, 

To  hunt  the  deer  ; 
But,  faint  of  heart,  and  weak  in  hand, 

Now,  come  not  here. 

Yet,  never  shall  be  lost,  the  trace 

Of  that  once  stern  and  silent  race, 

While  these  gray  rocks  still  hold  their  place 

Above  the  river, 
That  moves  along,  with  quiet  pace, 

As  young  as  ever  ! 


46  CONESTOGA. 

The  fair  stream  loves  her  Indian  name, 

And,  ever  may  it  be  the  same, 

As  when  the  pale-faced  warriors  came 

At  first,  to  woo  her  ; 
And  foully  murdered,  without  shame, 

Each  dusky  lover. 

With  rod  in  hand,  I  love  to  think 
Beside  the  brimfull  river's  brink, 
Or  watch  the  cork,  and  see  it  sink, 

As  when,  of  old, 
The  sun-fish  made  my  young  eyes  blink, 

With  dazzling  gold. 

Poor  fishes ! — they're  in  consternation 
About  the  "  march  of  navigation  ;" — 
Which  threatens  them  with  extirpation  : — 

There's  such  a  clatter, 
Of  puffing  engines — they've  no  notion 

Of  what's  the  matter  ! 

Improvement ! — Art's  deformed  child, 
Oh  !  never  mar  these  woodlands  wild, 
Where  sleeping  Nature  long  hath  smiled 

In  purest  dress  ; — 
And  may  she  never  be  defiled 

By  your  caress ! 


C  O  N  E  S  T  O  G  A.  47 

Long  may  seclusion  reign,  as  now, 

Upon  this  tall  cliff's  rugged  brow  ; — 

Fit  place  for  thought,  or  low-breathed  vow 

Of  early  love  ; — 
Or,  where  the  pious  heart  may  bow 

To  God  above ! 


'-SHE   COULD  NOT  LIVE   ALWAY!'' 
(In  memory  of  Miss  H .) 

SHE  could  not  live  alway! — then  why  should  we  mourn 
That  pure  spirit,  too  early  from  earth  has  been  torn ; 
O,  let  us  remember  !— those  calm,  saintlike  eyes 
Are  now  looking  downward,  from  out  the  blue  skies. 

She  could  not  live  alway,  that  household  to  cheer, 
Which  the  loss  of  the  loved  one  makes  lonely  and  drear  ; 
But,  ye  grief-stricken  mourners,  O  !  do  not  forget, 
As  a  bright  guardian  angel,  she  cares  for  you  yet. 

Her  good  deeds  will  live  alway  : — the  grief-stricken  band 
Who  were  cheered  by  the  bounty  that  fell  from  her  hand, 
When  the  cold  pinches  keenly,  will  sigh  she's  no  more, 
Giving  comfort  and  hope  as  she  used  to  before. 

She  no  longer  may  follow  the  church-going  bell, 
Nor  unite  in  that  service  she  once  loved  so  well ; 
But  she  sleeps  in  the  bosom  of  church-hallowed  ground, 
Where  the  organ-notes  breathe  in  soft  music  around. 


"SHE  COULD  NOT  LIVE  ALWAY."  49 

The  cold  winds  of  November  howl  fierce  o'er  her  grave, 
And  tempest-tost  boughs  all  disconsolate  wave ; 
But,  again  shall  the  blue-bird  rejoice  in  the  bowers, 
And  Spring  shall  encircle  her  tombstone  with  flowers. 

So,  the  sharpness  of  anguish  not  always  can  last, 
And  friends  gladly  will  muse  over  joys  that  are  past : 
Old  Time,  though  he  cuts  down  our  roses  in  bloom, 
Yet  loves  to  shed  beauty  and  grace  round  the  tomb ! 

She  could  not  live  alway ! — then  dry  up  your  tears  ! — 
Be  ye  ready,  like  her,  and  stern  Death  has  no  fears ; 
Mark  well  the  bright  pathway  she  patiently  trod  ; — 
It  will  bear  thee  safe  home,  to  thy  Father  and  God  ! 


THE   INAUGURATION. 
March  4th,  1841. 

WHY  all  this  stir  1 — why  beats  the  nation's  heart 
With  such  intensity,  in  time  of  peace  1 — 
Why  do  the  people  crowd  in  eager  throngs 
About  the  Capitol  1 — as  if  this  day 
Were  arbiter  of  life  and  death  to  all  ? 

'Tis  an  eventful  time  ! — the  noble  vessel 

Built  by  our  ancestors,  and  first  commanded 

By  him  who  brought  us  to  the  promised  land, 

Is  this  day  launched  anew ;  and  all  good  Christians 

Would  breathe  a  blessing  as  she  leaves  the  shore ; — 

Her  noble  freight  is  rich  beyond  compare, 

And  Freedom's  friends  watch  eagerly  her  course ; 

Here,  the  bright  gems  of  Liberty  are  stored, 

And,  if  the  ship  goes  down — she  carries  with  her, 

The  dearest  hopes  of  all  who  would  be  free : 

Brave  Kosciusko  will  have  lived  in  vain, 

And  high-souled  Emmet's  death  be  impotent 

To  save  green  Erin  from  the  spoiler's  hand ! 


THE    INAUGURATION.  51 

If,  from  the  realms  of  peace,  departed  spirits 

Can  e'er  behold  the  doings  of  our  earth — 

The  soul  of  Washington  now  hovers  near  ; 

O  !  may  his  honoured  mantle  ever  rest 

On  his  successor  ; — and,  with  it,  every  virtue 

That  shone  so  brightly  in  our  country's  Father, 

In  double  portion  ! — May  the  hand  of  Age 

Deal  gently  with  him  ! — and, — his  mission  ended — 

Prosperity  restored — our  banner  floating 

In  undimmed  lustre  over  every  sea. — 

Then,  may  his  silvered  head — himself  rejoicing — 

Lie  down  to  sleep,  amid  a  nation's  tears  ! 


TO  A  SWORD. 

GAY,  glittering  blade ! — 
So  brightly,  beautifully  wrought, — 

As  if  for  plaything  made — 
Thou  art  a  theme  for  solemn  thought ! 

A  changeful  thing — 
The  agent  both  of  good  and  evil — 

I  scarce  know  how  to  sing 
Of  thee — half  angel,  and  half  devil ! 

By  such  as  thou, 
Earth's  proudest  empires  have  been  riven, 

And  hearts  are  bleeding  now, 
From  unstaunched  wounds  which  thou  hast  given  ! 

On  that  red  field, 
Where  bleeding  Poland  gasps  for  breath, 

Strong-armed  usurpers  wield 
Thy  blade,  to  cause  young  Freedom's  death  ! 


TO    A    SWORD.  53 

Again,  I  see 
Oppression  vanquished  by  thy  steel, 

For  patriot  hands,  by  thee, 
Must  aim  the  blow  that  tyrants  feel. 

Then,  softly  lie 
Within  thy  scabbard's  narrow  cell ; — 

Waiting  the  battle-cry 
Of  spirits  such  as  Bruce  or  Tell. 

And,  O  ! — we  pray, 
Thou  ne'er  may'st  answer  to  the  call 

Of  men  who  coldly  slay, 
To  fright  the  world  with  shroud  and  pall. 

Bright  one  ! — farewell ! 
Rest  long  in  silence  and  in  shade, 

And  it  shall  please  me  well 
To  deck,  with  olive-boughs,  thy  blade ! 


THE   DREAM   OF   COLUMBUS. 

As  his  caravels  light,  o'er  the  watery  waste, 
To  the  fabled  Atlantis  were  bounding  in  haste, 
The  admiral  saw,  in  the  visions  of  night, 
A  picture  of  beauty  burst  full  on  his  sight. 

At  first,  in  dim  outline,  the  shadowy  form 

Of  an  island  is  seen,  as  the  bow  from  the  storm ; — 

Its  gentle  declivities  carpeted  o'er, 

With  a  velvet-like  verdure,  all  down  to  the  shore. 

'Mid  its  green,  woody  glens,  and  its  palm-covered  heights, 
Was  a  people  that  revelled  in  Eden's  delights ; 
No  labour  was  there ;  but  a  fine-moulded  race 
Sought  their  food  in  the  brooks,  or  the  soul -stirring  chase. 

There,  the  valiant  cacique,  of  great  prowess  in  arms, 
And  the  beauteous  maiden,  of  unadorned  charms, 
In  nature's  simplicity  roamed  through  the  wood, 
And  happiness  smiled  on  the  land  where  they  stood. 


\ 

THE    DREAM    OP    COLTJMBUS.  55 

But,  his  vision  is  changed  ! — a  dark  cloud  o'er  the  isle 
Dispels,  in  a  moment,  Utopia's  smile  : — 
The  people  are  scattered — they  perish  in  fright, 
As  slowly  the  vision  withdraws  from  his  sight. 

The  shriek  of  the  dying  rings  loud  in  his  ear, 
And  his  slumber  is  broken  by  wonder  and  fear ; 
But,  the  creaking  of  masts,  and  the  billows'  loud  roar, 
Remind  him,  that  yet  he  is  far  from  the  shore ! 


MOUNT  VEHNON. 

LET  Europe  boast  her  storied  halls 

With  graceful  ivy  crowned, 
Arid  legendary  lore  that  breathes 

From  all  her  hallowed  ground ! 
I  envy  not  her  Marathon, 

Nor  castellated  Rhine  : — 
A  greener  spot  than  these,  adorns 

This  forest-home  of  mine ! 

Where  old  Potomac  proudly  bears 

His  tribute  to  the  seas, 
Behold  yon  mansion  peeping  through 

Its  tall,  ancestral  trees  ! 
O  !  pass  not  by  that  sacred  spot 

With  aught  but  pious  tread, 
For  there  a  nation  comes  to  weep, 

Above  the  nation's  dead  ! 

Well,  Old  Dominion  ! — may'st  thou  love 
To  boast  of  such  a  son  ; — 


MOUNT    VERNON.  57 

And  others,  hardly  less  renowned, 

Thy  children,  every  one  ! 
And  O  !  direct  thy  later  seed, 

Of  these  apostate  days, 
To  mark  the  glorious  path  of  him 

Whom  all  the  nations  praise. 

These  ancient  rooms  were  wont  to  view 

His  tall,  majestic  form, 
Who  used  to  guide  the  helm  of  state, 

And  rule  the  battle's  storm. 
These  mossy  trunks  he  used  to  view, 

As  now  we  see  them  stand, 
And  yonder  ancient  orange-tree 

Was  planted  by  his  hand. 

Mementoes  of  the  great  and  good  ! 

My  heart  within  me  bounds, 
Whene'er  my  roving  footstep  treads 

Within  these  hallowed  bounds. 
Earth  does  not  hold  a  purer  spot 

Than  Vernon's  patriot-shrine, 
The  only  Mecca  that  adorns 

This  forest-land  of  mine ! 


NIOBE    CHANGED  INTO   STONE. 
(A  Scene  from  the  Classics.) 

IT  was  a  bright  and  joyous  day  in  Thebes. — 
The  sun  rode  gaily  in  the  vault  of  heaven, 
Tinging  the  altars  with  a  hue  of  gold, 
While  the  grave  matron  and  the  blooming  maid 
Poured  votive  incense  on  Latona's  shrine. — 

With  flashing  eye,  and  step  of  solemn  tread, 

See  Niobe  advance  ! — with  haughty  grace 

Shaking  the  tresses  from  her  snow-white  neck, 

And  from  each  full,  round  shoulder. — "  Foolish  race!" 

Exclaims  the  beauteous  queen — "  these  rites  to  pay 

To  a  poor  outcast,  as  Latona  is. — 

I,  vassals  !  am  your  queen  ; — my  noble  blood 

Hath  its  pure  fountain  in  a  line  of  gods, 

While  the  twin  children  of  my  deadly  foe 

Were  born  on  floating  Delos — as  if  earth 

Would  grant  no  resting-place  for  one  like  her. 

I  am  the  parent  of  seven  lovely  boys, 

Graceful  in  movement  as  the  nimble  deer, 


NIOBE    CHANGED    INTO    STONE.  59 

And  of  seven  lovely  daughters — fit  to  be 
The  cherished  darlings  of  a  mother's  pride." 

Latona  now  her  injured  children  calls 
To  the  high  top  of  Cynthus  : — vengeance  dire 
She  breathes  against  the  queen  : — Apollo  now, 
And  now  the  chaste  Diana,  she  invokes 
To  smite  the  offspring  of  her  queenly  foe. 

*  *  *  * 
Vengeance  hath  done  its  work :  the  noble  sons 
Of  Niobe,  careering  on  the  plain, 

Die  by  Apollo's  arrow — and  their  sire 
Seeks  death,  by  falling  on  his  trusty  sword. 

Ill-fated  Niobe ! — alas,  how  changed  ! — 
With  frantic  energy,  she  throws  her  arms 
Round  the  cold  bodies  of  the  early  dead, 
And  prints  warm  kisses  on  each  lifeless  cheek. 
"  Cruel  Latona  !"  she  in  madness  cries — 
"  Feast  your  hard  soul  upon  my  heavy  loss  ! 
Thou  art  a  victor ! — but  what  room  for  pride  ? 
Have  I  not  yet  seven  daughters  ? — even  now 
My  living  offspring  will  outnumber  thine ! 

*  #  *  * 
Again — a  twanging  of  the  silver  bow  ! — 
And  those  fair  daughters  perish,  one  by  one, 
Like  sere  leaves  dropping  from  autumnal  trees. 
But  one  survives  ! — The  mother  braves  the  bolt, 
And  wraps  the  youngest  darling  in  her  robe. — 


60  NIOBE    CHANGED    INTO    STONE. 

The  death-blow  lingers  ! — Ah  ! — the  arrow  strikes  ! 
And  Niobe  laments  her  childless  woe. 

"  They  all  are  now  departed  ! — 
Gone  to  the  bosom  of  the  silent  land  ! — 

And  I,  the  broken-hearted, 

No  more  may  clasp  my  children  by  the  hand ! — 
The  fire-scathed  limb  of  a  once  fruitful  tree, 
Were  a  fit  emblem  and  a  type  of  me  !" 

The  strain  is  hushed — and,  on  her  pallid  lip, 
Dies  in  a  low-breathed  whisper,  as  she  sinks, 
Seated,  amid  the  corpses  of  the  slain. 
A  rigid  coldness  creeps  o'er  every  limb ; 
Her  golden  tresses  stir  not  in  the  breeze — 
Each  languid  eye  gazes  on  vacancy, 
As  her  numbed  figure  into  marble  grows-! 

That  lifeless  form  is  beautiful  in  death, 

And,  bearing  still  the  attitude  of  woe, 

A  weeping  moisture  trickles  from  the  stone. 


WILD   FLOWERS. 

WELCOME  to  earth  ! — ye  wild,  untended  flowers, 

Blooming  in  beauty  on  the  lonely  hill : — 
Lifting  your  painted  cups  to  taste  the  showers, 

Or  bending  low,  to  drink  the  murmuring  rill  ! 
Blossoms  of  hope  !  o'er  all  around  ye,  flinging 

Odours  more  gentle  than  an  infant's  dream, 
On  sterile  rocks,  and  far-off*  mountains  springing, 

Emblems  of  virgin  purity  ye  seem  ! 

Nodding  securely  on  some  dizzy  fastness, 

Where  boldest  cragsman  may  not  dare  to  climb, 
Ye  look  with  favoured  eyes  on  nature's  vastness  : — 

On  scenes,  now  beautiful,  and  now  sublime  ! 
Ye  brave  the  tempest,  in  its  fury,  rending 

The  tender  sapling,  and  the  gnarled  tree ; 
And  the  warm  south  wind,  gently  o'er  ye  bending, 

Comes  with  a  low  and  plaintive  minstrelsy  ! 

Though  your  prime  sisters  of  the  neat-trimmed  garden 
May  have  more  loveliness  for  other  eyes, 
6* 


62  WILD    FLOWERS. 

It  were  a  grave  offence  I  ne'er  could  pardon, 
Should  friend  of  mine  your  artlessness  despise. 

Whene'er  I  think  of  you,  my  thoughts  will  wander 
To  one  more  beautiful  and  artless  too, 

Upon  whose  untaught  grace  I  ne'er  can  ponder 
But  some  wild  floweret  I  seem  to  view. 

The  glossy  tresses,  round  her  dark  eyes  wreathing, 

Seem  like  the  curling  tendrils  of  the  vine, 
When  the  low-whispered  evening  winds  are  breathing, 

And  the  young  stars  are  dimly  seen  to  shine : 
Her  merry  laugh  comes  like  the  plash  of  waters, 

Falling  in  dew-drops  through  the  summer  air  ; — 
Brightest  and  best,  of  all  earth's  lovely  daughters — 

Nature  hath  wrought  her  proudest  triumph  there. 

I  covet  not  some  finely-chiselled  creature, 

Cold  as  the  marble  of  the  sculptor's  art : — 
An  air  of  thought  should  play  around  each  feature, 

And  the  warm  blush  betray  the  glowing  heart ! 
The  velvet  dahlia,  in  rare  beauty  standing, 

Gives  out  no  fragrance  where  it  proudly  blows, 
Dearer  to  me,  with  spicy  breath  expanding, 

The  budding  sweetness  of  my  young  wild  rose  ! 


ADIEU  TO  WYOMING-. 

SWEET  valley ! — famed  for  noble  deeds, 

In  chronicle  and  song, — 
I  cannot  quit  thy  pleasant  fields 

Where  I  have  tarried  long, 
Without  a  sigh  of  bitter  pain, 

That  I  no  more  may  see 
The  friendly  faces  I  have  known, 

Sweet  Wyoming  !  in  thee. 

Thy  hills — thy  vales — are  beautiful, 

As  earthly  scenes  can  be, 
Yet  beauty  was  a  fatal  gift, 

Fair  Wyoming  !  to  thee. 
Two  nations  saw  thy  winning  smile, 

And  wooed  thee  as  a  bride, 
And  for  the  prize  of  that  fair  form 

Their  stoutest  champions  died. 


64  ADIEU    TO    WYOMING. 

So,  Greeks  and  Trojans  battled, 

In  ages  long  gone  by, 
To  win  the  fair  enchantress 

With  laughter-loving  eye ; 
Alas  !  alas  ! — the  cruel  woes 

Thy  people  that  befell, 
Upon  that  red-stained  battle-field , 

I  cannot  bear  to  tell ! 


Fair  land  of  beauty  and  of  blood  ! 

Thy  yellow  grain-crops  wave, 
O'er  broken  lance,  and  arrow-head, 

Once  wielded  by  the  brave, 
And  bones  of  rare  old  patriots, 

As  brave  as  ever  trod, 
Who  met  the  fierce  invaders 

In  battle  for  thy  sod. 


And,  Gertrude  ! — brightest,  sweetest  child, 

That  Fancy  ever  drew, 
I  cannot  quit  these  peaceful  scenes, 

Without  a  sigh  for  you  ! 
Thy  gentle  spirit  seems  to  float 

O'er  every  mist-clad  hill ; — 
The  music  of  thy  voice,  to  breathe 

From  every  bounding  rill ! 


ADIEU    TO    WYOMING.  65 

Home  of  the  brave  and  beautiful ! 

While  memory  shall  be, 
The  children  of  our  land  will  go 

On  pilgrimage  to  thee ! 
Forget  not  all  thy  fathers  did, 

And,  to  thyself  be  true ; — 
And,  now  I  leave  thy  storied  vale, — 

Sweet  Wyoming  !  adieu  ! 


THE    MAD   POET. 

THE  sweetest  music  often  breathes 

From  harp  of  feeblest  strings, 
And  finest  chord,  when  harshly  struck, 

In  wildest  discord  rings ; 
But,  where's  the  harp  so  nicely  strung, 

Trembling  in  every  part, 
As  melody's  own  native  home — 

The  true-born  poet's  heart ! 

What  wonder  if,  in  this  rough  world, 

Its  chords  should  oft  be  broken, 
By  stern  misfortune's  icy  touch, 

Or  harsh  word,  lightly  spoken  ? 
While  dull  stupidity  plods  on, 

Which  no  dim  ray  inspires, 
The  soul  of  genius  oft  consumes 

In  its  own  lightning-fires. 


THE    MAD    POET.  67 


Behold  ! — yon  wretch,  with  glaring  eye, 

And  hotly-burning  brain — 
Whom  charming  once  inspired — 

Is  now — alas  ! — insane. 
The  brilliant  pageantry,  that  once 

Gleamed  on  his  favoured  eye, 
Is  changed  to  wild  fantastic  shapes, 

That  now  pass  swiftly  by. 


Pure  forms  of  light,  and  shapes  of  hell, 

Come  trooping  on,  together  ; 
As  snow-drops,  harbingers  of  spring, 

Are  seen  in  wintry  weather. 
Insult  not  thou,  that  wretched  man, 

Though  bolts  and  bars  are  round  him 
'Tis  not  for  crime,  nor  fault  of  his, 

That  thus,  they've  rudely  bound  him. 


Imagination  lured  him  on. — 

The  nymph  is  crowned  with  roses, — 
But  ah ! — she  puts  a  man  in  chains, 

So  soon  as  he  reposes  ! — 
That  ruined  mind,  is  like  a  church, 

Where  anthems  once  were  pealing, 
And  chequered  rays  of  mellow  light 

Through  painted  windows  stealing; — 


68  THE    MAD    POET. 

But,  roofless  now,  the  moaning  wind 

Sighs  through  its  crumbling  arches, 
And,  in  its  long-deserted  aisles, 

Grim  desolation  marches. 
That  spot  was  once  the  cherished  home, 

Where  holy  thoughts  resided  ; 
Nor,  though  ye  slight  those  ruined  walls, 

Forget — God  once  presided  ! 


THE   CLOCK  OF  THE   BURNING  TO WER. 


It  is  a  fact  mentioned  in  the  newspapers,  that  during  the  late  fire 
which  destroyed  part  of  the  Tower  of  London,  the  great  clock  of  the 
fortress  was  heard  to  strike  the  hour,  just  before  it  fell,  and  while  the 
dial-plate  was  wrapped  in  flames. 


WOE  to  yon  dusky  fortress, 

Reared  by  old  British  kings  ! 
See  ! — what  a  lurid  brightness 

The  blaze  around  it  flings  ! — 
The  roofs  crash  down,  with  thunder, 

And  around,  armed  soldiers  stand, 
To  guard,  from  ruthless  plunder, 

The  jewels  of  the  land  ! 

There,  suits  of  antique  armour, 
From  many  a  well-fought  field, 

Are  ranged  in  brilliant  order, 
With  sword,  and  bruised  shield. 

7 


70         THE    CLOCK    OF    THE    BURNING    TOWER. 

Much  have  those  turrets  witnessed 

Of  gorgeous  and  sublime, 
Since,  beneath  that  .moated  castle, 

Hath  rolled  the  stream  of  Time  ! 

We  recall  the  crafty  Norman, 

Rufus — long  since  a  shade — 
By  whom  the  strong  foundations 

Of  London  Tower  were  laid. 
There,  oft  hath  been  proud  Bess, 

And  Cceur-de-Lion,  there ; 
And  there,  the  hosts  of  Cromwell 

Have  breathed  fanatic  prayer  ! 

O  Time ! — we  pray  thee,  spare  them  ! — 

Those  venerable  walls  I— 
The  voice  of  the  departed, 

For  mercy  on  thee  calls. 
But  no  ! — the  flame  mounts  higher, 

Encircling  wood  and  stone  ; 
The  Old  Clock,  in  his  tower, 

Stands  up  on  high,  alone. 

Hark  ! — clear  and  loud  that  sentry 
Rings  out  the  passing  hour; — 

Ah  !  never  more  that  silver  voice 
Shall  peal  from  London  Tower ! — 

A  crash  ! — the  ruin  crumbles  ! — 
Its  glories  now  are  past : 


THE  CLOCK  OF  THE  BURNING  TOWER.    71 

But  oh  !  I  love  that  faithful  clock, 
On  duty  to  the  last. 

Methinks,  a  word  of  wisdom 

Those  smouldering  ruins  tell : — 
Happy  the  man,  that  ponders, 

And  reads  that  lesson  well ! — 
Duty  pursues  thee,  ever : — 

And,  e'en  with  dying  breath, 
Cling  to  that  glorious  motto — 

"  Be  faithful  unto  death  !" 


ABBOT3FORD. 

As  when  the  spirit  scarce  hath  fled 

From  some  enchanting  form, 
Whose  bland  expression  lingers  yet, 

Round  lips  so  lately  warm ; 
Thy  hallowed  pile,  lone  Abbotsford  ! 

Still  echoes  with  the  lay 
Of  him,  the  Minstrel,  who  is  gone 

From  this  dull  earth  away ! 

We  cannot  feel,  he  now  lies  low 

Beneath  the  sluggish  clod, 
Where  Dryburgh's  cloisters  used  to  swell 

With  orisons  to  God. 
Come  ! — peep  within  his  study  door ; 

We  almost  see  him  still ! — 
Perchance,  he  only  wanders  o'er 

The  valley  or  the  hill ! 

Those  books  have  never  been  profaned 
By  touch  of  common  hand  ; 


ABBOTSFORD.  73 

Arid,  near  yon  world-delighting  desk, 

His  chair  and  footstool  stand. 
The  antlers  of  the  noble  stag 

Bring  back  the  thrilling  chase, 
And  each  old  helmet  hangs  aloft, 

In  its  familiar  place. 

But  see  ! — across  yon  ink-horn's  fount, 

And  round  each  well-worn  pen, 
The  spider  wraps  his  silken  thread, 

To  guard  from  meaner  men. 
No  dog  is  heard,  in  lawn  or  bower, — 

No  children  in  the  hall : — 
Tweed's  silver  ripples,  soft  and  low, 

In  mournful  cadence  fall. 

And,  can  it  be,  that  ne'er  again 

That  merry  voice  shall  sound  1 
And,  ne'er  again,  its  ballad  lore 

Be  heard  on  Scotland's  ground  ? 
And  hath  that  true  and  sturdy  heart 

Indeed,  now  ceased  to  beat  ? 
And  shall  that  warm  and  trusty  hand 

No  more  the  pilgrim  greet  ? 

Alas  ! — no  more! — and  yet,  no  fear 

That  thou  canst  be  forgot, 
Whose  memory  is  shrined  there, 

Where  change  affects  it  not ! — 

7* 


74  ABBOTSFORD. 

We  never  knew  those  mellow  tones — 
The  twinkle  of  that  eye  : — 

Yet,  every  heart  doth  mourn  a  friend, 
When  such  as  thou  must  die  ! 

Time,  with  his  swift-destroying  fingers, 

Which  blight  where'er  they  fall, 
E'en  visits  gravestones  with  his  touch, 

And  tioon  effaces  all. 
But  dark  oblivion  shall  not  rob 

Thine  epitaph  from  thee  : — 
Its  letters  oft  shall  be  retouched. 

By  Old  Mortality  ! 


THE  HOUSE  OF  PUAYEU. 

Written  on  the  consecration  of  Christ's  Church,  Vicksburg,  Mississippi, 
by  Bishop  Otey,— May  3d,  1843. 

YOUNG  May  hath  many  a  pleasant  round 

Of  soft  and  dreamy  hours, 
And  much  she  loves  to  linger  in 

This  sunny  land  of  flowers, — 
Where  southern  birds  of  gorgeous  plume, 

On  clustering  bay-trees  sing, 
And  skies,  as  blue  as  Italy's, 

Bend  over  us  in  Spring. 

And,  were  the  whole  of  this  our  life 

Hemmed  in  by  fleeting  Time, 
'Twere  good  to  dream  it  all  away 

In  some  delicious  clime : — 
But  ah ! — too  oft,  the  spirit's  cry 

Of  agony  is  heard, 


76  THE    HOUSE    OF    PRAYER. 

Where  nature  rings  with  melody 
From  many  a  joyous  bird. 

But,  list ! — methinks  a  holier  spell 

Comes  on  the  spring-tide  air, 
As  pious  hymns  and  anthems  float 

Around  the  House  of  Prayer ! 
For  pointed  arch,  and  Gothic  tower, 

Whence  silvery  chimes  shall  ring, 
Have  tenderer  voices  for  the  heart, 

Than  flowers,  or  birds  of  spring. 

A  Bishop,  robed  in  sacred  vest, 

In  yonder  aisles  I  see, 
Imploring  that  the  Triune  God 

Within  these  courts  may  be, 
To  bless,  with  his  especial  grace. 

The  contrite,  humble  prayer, 
That  toward  the  heavenly  throne  ascends, 

Up  through  this  hallowed  air — 

That  many  a  host  of  blessed  ones 

May  here  be  born  to  life, 
And  here,  may  find  a  safe  retreat 

From  daily  cares  and  strife  ; — 
That  many  a  way-worn  pilgrim,  here, 

By  fate  condemned  to  roam, 
May  find,  in  all  our  Mother's  prayers, 

Sweet  memories  of  home. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    PRAYER.  77 

Here,  never  may  the  Church's  voice 

Be  hushed  in  silence  more, 
Until  the  potent  sound  of  truth 

Has  reached  the  gloomiest  shore  ! — 
Long  may  Old  Time,  the  ravager, 

God's  holy  temple  spare, 
And  bring  the  ivy  and  the  vine 

To  wreathe  our  House  of  Prayer  ! 


POCAHONTAS. 
A  Ballad. 

WAS  there  ever  heard,  in  the  whole  wide  world, 

By  the  ear  of  a  living  man, 
Of  a  nobler  soul,  than  the  soul  that  glowed 

In  the  daughter  of  old  Powhatan  ? 

Her  eye  was  dark  as  the  raven's  wing, 

Her  cheek  with  its  blushes  warm, 
And  the  wild  gazelle  might  have  envied  well, 

The  rare  ease  of  her  bounding  form. 

When  the  white  man  came,  o'er  the  billowy  main, 

In  his  ship  with  the  snow-white  sail, 
The  dark-eyed  maid,  in  her  forest  glade, 

Right  gladly  the  bark  did  hail. 

Soon  brave  Smith  was  bound,  on  the  cold  cold  ground, 

And  the  club  was  uplifted  high, 
But  her  feeble  arm  was  a  shield  from  harm, 

When  he  seemed  just  ready  to  die. 


POCAHONTAS.  79 

Then,  base  Argall's  crew,  whom  she  thought  so  true, 

Led  her  off  from  her  wild-wood  port, 
And  they  carried  down  unto  old  Jamestown, 

As  a  prize  to  the  British  fort. 

But  the  doctrines  wild  of  the  savage  child 

She  believeth  no  longer  now, 
Counting  all  things  loss,  for  the  holy  cross 

That  was  signed  on  her  virgin  brow. 

Soon,  a  happy  wife,  in  the  bloom  of  life, 

She  sailed  from  her  native  shore ; 
And  she  shed  a  tear,  in  prophetic  fear, 

That  she  ne'er  would  behold  it  more. 

With  a  royal  grace,  she  surveyed  each  place 

In  old  England's  sea-girt  isle, 
And  each  proudest  name  on  the  roll  of  fame, 

Sought  the  prize  of  her  queen-like  smile. 

But  unsparing  Death,  took  away  her  breath, 
When  she  thought  to  have  crossed  the  sea  ; 

And  she  sadly  smiled  on  her  infant  child, 
As  it  played  on  a  father's  knee. 

And  now  she  sleeps  in  the  green  churchyard, 

Beside  old  England's  dead  ; 
And  Gravesend  spire,  like  a  sword  of  fire, 

Keepeth  guard  by  her  lowly  bed. 


RAINY  WEATHER. 

WHEN  prattling  poets  write  about  the  weather, 
They  always  paint  it  in  "  couleur  de  rose ;" 

The  sky  is  gorgeous  as  a  peacock's  feather, 
And  balmy  zephyrs  lull  them  to  repose : — 

In  short,  if  we  might  trust  to  what  ilwy  say, 

Earth  never  witnessed  yet,  a  rainy  day  ! 

It  is  to  dissipate  this  strange  delusion, 

That,  in  the  blues,  I  venture  now  to  write : 

Indeed,  I've  come  almost  to  the  conclusion, 
That  Phoebus  ne'er  again  will  shed  his  light : 

Each  sad-faced  mortal  plods  on  with  umbrella, 

And  wet  feet,  cased  in  leather  or  prunella. 

The  fickle  weathercocks  have  rusted  east, 
And  won't,  I  fear,  shift  posture  very  soon  ; 

For,  knowing  ones,  who  on  our  misery  feast, 

Assure  us  we  must  wait  for  "  change  of  moon  :" — 

From  which  "  Job's  comfort"  kindly  sent  to  cheer  us, 

It  seems  a  ten  days'  drizzle  is  before  us  ! 


KAINY    WEATHER.  81 

The  gutters,  swollen  to  a  mighty  flood, 

May  be  a  pleasant  copy  of  the  rill 
To  sentimental  folks  : — but  ah,  the  mud 

Cuts  off  our  access  to  Parnassus'  hill ! 
We  earth-born  grovellers  are  grown  splenetic  : — 
One  should  have  stout  wings  now  to  be  poetic. 

But  come ! — we'll  try  to  think  about  the  graces, 
Weaving  the  light  dance  on  fantastic  toe, 

A  radiant  group,  with  brightly  beaming  faces, 
And  fair  necks  whiter  than  the  driven  snow. 

But  ah  ! — their  light  robes  are  all  strangely  draggled, 

In  yon  dull  puddle  where  my  thoughts  have  straggled. 

Well ! — that  won't  do  : — not  even  the  bright  moon 
To  which  the  dullest  can  address  "  O  thou  !" — 

Nor  buds,  nor  blossoms,  nor  the  merry  tune 
Of  nature's  songsters  could  inspire  me  now. 

My  ill-starred  muse,  in  this  detested  weather, 

Mopes,  like  a  barn-fowl  dripping  at  each  feather. 

But  why  indulge  this  low  desponding  mood  ? 

Or  hate  the  rains  which  cheer  the  drooping  earth  ? 
In  these  dark  seasons,  kindly  sent  for  good, 

All  beauteous  things  are  moistened  into  birth ; 
And,  though  dull  clouds  obscure  the  sun  to-day, 
All  will  seem  lovelier  when  they've  rolled  away  ! 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  MUSINGS. 
"  Laudator  temporis  acti." — HORACE. 

AH  !  soon  for  me  the  parting  word 

To  kind  friends  must  be  spoken; 
And  very  soon,  the  silver  cord — 

The  golden  bowl — be  broken  : 
Soon  shall  the  birds,  in  leafy  bowers, 

Rejoice  when  I'm  no  more, 
And  e'en  my  own  deserted  flowers 

Bloom  sweetly  as  before. 

'Tis  very  true,  that  frosty  age 

Hath  silvered  o'er  my  hair  ; 
My  furrowed  cheeks  are  as  a  page 

All  written  o'er  with  care ; 
But  yet  my  heart  still  beats  as  true — 

It  thrills  with  purer  joy, 
Than  when  the  light-winged  moments  flew 

Above  the  laughing  boy. 


AN    OLD    MAN'S    MUSINGS. 

I  love  to  walk  with  feeble  tread 

Where  once  I  used  to  roam 
With  those,  the  absent  or  the  dead, 

Friends  of  my  boyhood's  home. 
I  love  to  see  a  sportive  child 

Who  bounds  in  playful  glee, 
And  often  stops  his  frolic  wild 

With  mournful  glance  on  me. 


Seems  it,  fair  child  !  my  dim,  sunk  eye, 

Was  ne'er  so  bright  as  thine  ? 
That  thy  young  pulse,  which  now  beats  high, 

Will  ne'er  be  slow  as  mine  ? — 
I  seek  not  to  dispel  thy  dream 

Which  paints  the  world  so  gay  : — 
Since  life's  young  visions  brightly  gleam, 

Enjoy  them,  while  you  may  ! 


Fond  memory  still  calls  me  back 

To  sunny  childhood's  days, 
And  as  the  future  grows  more  black, 

The  past  hath  brighter  rays. 
I  sometimes  wonder  if  the  young 

Are  happy  now,  as  they 
Whose  merry  laugh  once  gayly  rung 

Amid  our  youthful  play. 


84  AN  OLD  MAN'S  MUSINGS. 

Methinks,  the  landscape  shines  less  fair — 

The  sun  less  brightly  beams — 
There's  less  of  fragrance  in  the  air — 

Less  music  in  the  streams — 
Than  when  my  early  home  was  glad 

With  happy  children's  joy  : — 
Methinks,  the  world  is  grown  more  sad, 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy  ! 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  HUMMING-  BIBD. 

(Suggested  by  the  finding  of  a  dead  humming  bird,  in  one  of  the  rooms 
of  a  deserted  house.) 

A  YOUTHFUL  bird,  one  summer's  day, 
Flew  from  the  parent  nest  away  : 
The  world,  to  his  delighted  eyes, 
Seemed  far  too  good  a  place  for  sighs. — 
Nature  looked  bright,  the  bird  was  gay, 
As  through  the  air  he  winged  his  way. 
At  times,  he'd  stoop  to  taste  a  flower ; — 
Awhile,  he'd  rest  in  beauty's  bower : — 
His  fellow-songsters  all  were  singing, 
And  gardens  round  their  odours  flinging, 
"  Well,"  said  the  bird,  "  I  wonder  why 
Your  moralists  the  world  decry  : 
I'm  sure,  'tis  beautiful  to  me, 
And  I  shall  ever  joyous  be. — 
Pleasures  around,  with  eager  haste, 
Are  beckoning  to  come  and  taste : 
For  my  part,  I  intend  to  view, 
Whatever's  beautiful  or  new." 
8* 


86  THE    FATE    OF    THE    HUMMING    BIRD. 

Then,  lighting  near  a  broken  pane, 

He  listened  long  for  sound,  in  vain ; 

No  children's  voices  met  his  ear, 

And  the  old  house  looked  chill  and  drear. — 

As  closer  to  the  pane  he  drew, 

The  more  intense  his  wishes  grew 

To  know  the  mystery  within, 

Although,  to  pierce  it  might  be  sin. 

The  fatal  step  is  hardly  taken, 

When  all  his  hopes  are  sadly  shaken. 

Alone,  in  that  deserted  room, 

Each  sight  and  sound  is  tinged  with  gloom.- 

Flapping  his  wings,  he  tries  to  pass 

Again  through  crevice  in  the  glass. — 

Poor,  foolish  thing  ! — amid  the  glare, 

He  seeks  in  vain  for  exit  there. 

With  battered  wings,  and  bruised  breast, 

His  thoughts  fly  toward  the  cherished  nest, 

Where  those  who  have  not  learned  to  roam, 

Are  tasting  yet  the  joys  of  home. 

The  captive  bird,  bereft  of  power, 
Told  slowly  o'er  each  leaden  hour ; 
His  feeble  throat  refused  to  sing, 
And  downward  drooped  each  lagging  wing ; 
•A  blinding  film  crept  o'er  his  eye, 
And  none  was  near  to  see  him  die. 


THE    FATE    OF    THE    HUMMING    BIRD.  87 

No  friendly  faces  o'er  him  hung — 
No  warbling  birds  his  requiem  sung — 
None  wept  to  hear  the  solemn  knell, 
While  fairies  tolled  his  funeral  bell : — 
His  death  was  far  from  bustling  crowd, 
And  ruffled  plumes  his  only  shroud ! 


FOOTSTEPS   OF  AUTUMN. 

WHERE  are  the  birds,  whose  sweetly  warbled  notes 
Were  lately  gushing  forth  from  tuneful  throats  ? 
They  all  have  wandered  south,  to  happier  shores, 
Where  frost  ne'er  pinches,  and  no  tempest  roars  ? 

Where  are  the  many  bright  green  glossy  leaves 
That  laughing  summer  in  her  garland  wreathes? 
Withered  and  sere,  they  shiver  on  the  trees, 
Ere  long  to  rustle  on  some  truant  breeze. 

Methinks,  a  bevy  of  some  ancient  belles 
Might  well  contemplate  what  the  forest  tells : — 
'Tis  nature's  order,  that  a  wrinkled  leaf 
Needs  gayer  costume  as  its  life  grows  brief. 

A  solemn  stillness  reigns  o'er  hilt  and  dale  : — 
Each  lonely  rivulet  sighs  forth  her  tale. — 
'Tis  nature  sorrowing  for  the  death  of  flowers 
She  cherished  lately  in  her  inmost  bowers ! 


FOOTSTEPS    OF    AUTUMN.  89 

Ah  !  many  a  sweet  and  softly  nurtured  flower 
We  thought  too  lovely  for  the  tyrant's  power, 
That  grew,  at  spring-time,  fairest  o'er  the  sod 
Now  slumbers  darkly  underneath  the  clod  ! 

Earth's  best  and  brightest  soonest  pass  away, 
For  such,  'twere  needless  longer  here  to  stay ; 
Their  dross  refined,  and  every  fault  forgiven, 
'Tis  innate  buoyancy  that  lifts  to  heaven. 

We  do  not  sigh  that  summer  birds  are  fled, 
And  sweetest  flowers  lie  mingled  with  the  dead; 
Each  following  month  owns  some  peculiar  grace, 
And  sober  Autumn  wears  a  smiling  face. 

I  love  the  quiet  Sunday  afternoon, 
With  nature's  self  in  silence  to  commune, 
To  wander  thoughtfully  in  some  tall  wood 
Whose  giant  trunks  have  for  long  ages  stood. 

Then  nature's  calmness  sinks  into  my  breast, 

And  soothes  each  wilder  passion  into  rest: — 

I  would  not  part  with  Autumn's  mellow  reign, 

For  spring-time's  bursting  flowers,  or  summer's  grain. 


BOSTON  NOTIONS. 


(These  lines  were  written,  on  hearing  that  Mr.  Ralph  Waldo  Emer 
son,  and  others,  had  commenced  the  publication  of  a  transcendental 
work  called  "The  Dial,"  in  Boston,  the  chief  city  of  the  old  Pilgrim 
Fathers.) 


HEAR  !  a'  ye  goodly  pilgrim  flocks?, 
Frae'  Kennebec  to  Plymouth  rocks ! — 
The  market  for  your  wooden  clocks, 

Is  well-nigh  done  ! — 
For  Boston  chields,  wi'  "  Dial"  blocks, 

Now  track  the  sun  ! 

If  e'er  ye  catch  an  absent  wight, 
Gapin'  to  see  what's  out  o'  sight, 
And  claimin'  to  hae'  patent-right 

For  this  invention  ; — 
I  rede  ye ! — keep  him  fast  an'  tight 

In  your  attention  ! 


BOSTON    NOTIONS.  91 

He  has  na'  lost  his  mental  forces, 

Ye  simple  ones  !  when  he  discourses 

O'  "  inner  light" — which  now  commences 

To  make  us  wise, 
By  breakin'  down  the  crumblin'  fences 

Of  old  philosophies ! 

He's  over-grand  and  sentimental, 
To  crush  his  food  by  process  dental ; 
But  lives  on  air,  and  dainties  mental 

O'  purest  wit ; — 
The  foggy — mystic — transcendental ! — 

I  think  they  ca'  it. 

He  prates  o'  "  movement"  and  "  unrest ;" — 
The  "  nineteenth  century"  is  far  the  best, 
In  his  opinion,  that  e'er  left  the  nest 

O'  unhatched  time, 
And  Yankee  notions  richer  than  the  rest 

In  true  sublime. 


Ah  !  brither  Ralph  ! — pray  hae'  a  care  ! 
My  very  banes  do  quake  wi'  fear, 
Lest  ye  should  raise  the  Pilgrims  here, 

Frae  out  the  ground  ! — 
Puir  simple  folk  ! — they'd  gape,  to  hear 

Sic'  learned  sound  ! 


92  BOSTON    NOTIONS. 

Your  "  inner  light"  will  never  blink, 

But  frae  some  tiny  little  chink, 

O'  your  dark  lanthorn  ; — sae  I  think, 

'Tvvad  do  nae  good 
To  guide  my  feet,  when  I  would  sink 

In  moral  mud. 

And,  I  would  mind  ye,  one  and  all, — 
That  honest  men  sic'  things  ne'er  handle, 
Without  the  risk  to  get  a  fall ! — 

Wi'  my  puir  pence, 
I'd  rather  buy  the  farthin'  candle 

O'  common  sense ! 


THE    END. 


10 


R  5406 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


